The Power at her Fingertips
by The Feisty Rogue
Summary: It thrills her, the power at her fingertips; the way her wand sings in her hands.


**The Power at her Fingertips**

* * *

The Hummingbird Café is a small bookstore and tea shop just off the main drag of Diagon Alley. It's unassuming from the outside, with a pale brown door and a gloomy window display, but inside, it's brightly lit with glowing orbs of light that hover between the bookshelves, and armchairs are tucked into every nook and cranny. Minerva goes there most afternoons, armed with a book, some parchment, and a quill tucked into her bun. She orders the same thing each day; a scone with jam and cream and a pot of Earl Grey tea.

Perhaps she's boring; perhaps she just likes the repetition. She doesn't feel the need to analyse her inclination to treat herself, not now that she's fresh out of Hogwarts and simply passing time as she waits for the results of her N.E.W.T.s.

Today, she's reading _An Anthology of Eighteenth Century Charms_ by Beau T. Fuller. The development of modern day magic from the rituals and chants that dated back to the Middle Ages is fascinating and also essential to the progression and creation of spells. Minerva can already manipulate the incantations she's been taught at Hogwarts, experimenting with variations in pronunciation and word substitution. She's invented a few spells of her own, too — her favourite is a piece of magic that animates stone statues. It gives them a small degree of autonomy — not sentience, but enough for them to operate independently without direct supervision.

It thrills her, the power at her fingertips; the way her wand sings in her hands.

Minerva jumps as someone audibly clears their throat. She looks up to see that a wizard has silently appeared before her. Not Apparition — not in a shop — but merely the ability to glide across the squeaky wooden floorboards of the bookstore on soundless feet, or so she presumes.

The wizard is tall and slender, laugh lines creasing his grey eyes. His robes are nondescript but well-made and he takes the seat she offers him with a tilt of her head.

"Good afternoon, Miss McGonagall," he says. "My name is Dominic Croaker. I occupy a minor position within the British Magical Government."

That tells her very little about him. The smirk on his face tells her he's aware of that and is aware that she's aware. She sets aside her book on the coffee table.

"A pleasure, I'm sure," Minerva says, raising a brow. She keeps her voice neutral, despite the fact that she's irritated at his interruption.

Croaker smiles wider. Glancing down, he draws her attention to an envelope in his lap that definitely wasn't there before.

"This, Miss McGonagall, contains your N.E.W.T. results."

Minerva freezes before glancing up to narrow her eyes at Croaker.

"What? Why do you have them?"

She's fairly certain that this violates several Ministry bylaws.

Without a word, Croaker passes them over. Minerva purses her lips and resists the temptation to tear open the envelope. Instead, she fixes him with a steely glare.

"Well?"

"Have a look," he says. His voice is as soft as his hands look to be.

Minerva huffs, but she does as she's bid. As she unfolds the parchment within, she is proud to note that she has received Outstanding across the board in the seven N.E.W.T.s she attempted.

"Top of your year," Croaker says. His eyes are bright. "Best grades Hogwarts has seen since Albus Dumbledore."

That explains rather a lot, actually. She folds the parchment back into the envelope and eyes Croaker again. His wand is nowhere to be seen and there's no spell cast upon him that she can identify, but when she looks away, just to glance toward the front of the shop, she knows she wouldn't be able to pick him out of a crowd.

"You're—" She chokes upon the words. Suddenly, it's as if she can't speak.

"Very good." He stands and extends a business card. "The Ministry would like to invite you to an interview."

In bronze calligraphy, the business card says nothing but his name: _Dominic Croaker._ She flips it over to find it blank.

"When?" Minerva asks, looking up. He's gone. The space before her is empty, as if Croaker was never there at all.

"Where?" she says, aware she's not going to get an answer. She looks back down at the card she's holding. It's a clue; she certain of that.

It's a good thing that Minerva McGonagall likes a mystery.

* * *

Three days later, Minerva is no closer to unravelling the secrets held within the card and she's exhausted all the magical detection spells she knows. She's barely slept and she knows she's worrying her mother.

The words taunt her: _Dominic Croaker._ She has half a mind to rip the card in two, but one thing stops her… the reward the card holds, the light at the end of the tunnel… The Unspeakables. Ever since Minerva was a child, she's heard whispers of the Department of Mysteries and the magical experiments that takes place within. She craves it; the resources she'd have at her fingertips, the opportunity she'd have to work with like-minded people, the freedom she'd have to research to her heart's content. It's all she has ever dreamed of.

She isn't going to let some stupid puzzle of a business card stop her from becoming an Unspeakable.

"Minnie!"

Minerva grimaces and tucks the card into her breast pocket. Her mother calls her down all too frequently to eat or take tea or, most bothersome of all, to just chat.

"Coming," Minerva calls back. She takes the stairs two at a time, hoping to hurry this along.

Mother is sitting at the kitchen table. The sun's shining in through their windows, dappled against the wall by the lace curtains that are Mother's pride and joy. She's sliced an apple and it's arranged into eighths upon a china plate placed in the center of their red and white checked tablecloth. It's so twee Minerva feels she might have aged a decade in a minute.

"Darling, I know you're busy," Mother says, then pauses, arching a brow.

Minerva picks up a slice of apple and shoves it into her mouth in lieu of answering. Not exactly the height of decorum, but she's hardly going to tell her mother she's been investigating an Unspeakable's business card.

Mother huffs, but there's a fond expression upon her face. "Your father used to be just like that, you know," she says.

Minerva looks up, eager for the snippets of information her mother occasionally grants about her late father, but it looks to be as if that's all for today when Mother schools her face stern.

"No matter; you still must eat. I won't have you locked away in your room growing paler than a vampire and as thin as one too."

She begins to peel an orange. Minerva eats another slice of apple because she actually is hungry, now she thinks about it.

"You're a clever girl, Minnie, and I won't have you waste away. Fruit is just as important as bread and meat and we've plenty. At least take some upstairs with you when you disappear again."

The orange squirts juice when her mother splits the segments, droplets soaking into the tablecloth. The fabric absorbs the juice, drying quickly in the warmth of the sun, and moments later, it's as if it never happened. Minerva stares at tablecloth, even as Mother grumbles and casts a _Scourgify_.

Inspiration strikes her in that instant.

"Well, Minnie?"

"Yes, Mother," Minerva says. Her mind is elsewhere. She swipes up an orange. "Thank you!"

She races up the stairs, bursting into her room.

All this time, she was looking for a magical solution when the answer was of Muggle origins all along — or so she hopes.

First, Minerva practises with the juice from the orange. She squeezes it into a small ink pot she conjures and uses a fresh nib from a quill. She writes ' _hello_ ' on a piece of parchment in the acidic juices and allows it to dry. Then, she sustains a small flame on the end of her wand and holds it just below the parchment. It heats but does not burn — the word she wrote appears in charred brown a few shades darker than the parchment she wrote it on.

"Yes!" she cries, then glances at the door. When the stairs do not creak, Minerva removes the business card from her pocket and eyes it.

For a moment, she's sceptical. Can it really be so simple?

Then she shakes her head. Whether she's found the answer or not, it doesn't matter. Muggle detection methods are another avenue of exploration she's not considered. It gives her somewhere to start.

Minerva holds the flame up to the card and is so, so careful not to burn it. The flames lick at the base of the card.

In curls of calligraphy as elegantly written as Dominic Croaker's name, writing unfurls upon the blank card. She extinguishes the flame as soon as the letters are visible. Her smile is so wide her faces aches. She thinks she might be vibrating with joy.

Upon the card is just a time and a date: _2pm_ — _16th August._

It's three days away. Minerva has three days to prepare for an interview; three days to work out how to prove to a department shrouded so deeply in secrets that no one truly knows what it contains that she is someone that they should trust. Three days until her life truly starts.

Minerva smiles. Time and date memorised, she sets the business card aflame. Minerva is the top of her year, already an Animagus, and this is all she's ever dreamed of.

She's ready.

* * *

 _Word Count: 1632_

 _QLFC Round 9 Keeper Prompt: Minerva McGonagall_

 _Hogwarts Assignment #4 Women's History Task 1: Write about someone having to prove themselves in a work environment_

 _Back To School 5. (word) Experiment_

 _Character Appreciation 1. (trait) Bookworm_

 _Disney Challenge 5. Write about someone manipulative_

 _Dark Lady 4. Parchment_

 _Showtime 7. (season) Summer_

 _Amber's Attic 6. Failure is when you talk yourself out of becoming something amazing._

 _Emy's Emporium 8. Write about someone inspirational_


End file.
